Not Again
by xaddictedx
Summary: Ding Dong the witch is dead, Americans out to bomb … Canadians? Again? Hilarity ensues as the boys tries to stop the war at all costs. Do the South Park people ever learn from their mistakes? Ever?


**As a Canadian, I felt obligued to write this after watching 'it's Christmas Time in Canada!' the South Park Movie, and Canadian Bacon. It's my jab at humour, I guess. So this is going to be written in Canadian spelling. Yes, that means extra 'u's in perfectly fine words like favourite, colour, and bouner-biting--uuncle-fuucka.**

**I know nothing about American politics other than there's a president, first lady, senators, a secretary, and secretaries for everything.**

**I own nothing. Even if I did, I still wouldn't be making money off of it, because I'm that pathetic.**

President Obama walked around the Oval office in the white house. The plush carpeting muffled his footsteps, which was rather dissatisfying.

_It's good to be king_.

Of course, he was not _technically_ king, it was only his first day in office, and America was technically a 'democracy'. A few months ago he was 'elected', and his group involving John McClain, Sarah Palin, Michelle Obama and Ike Broflovski successfully obtained the hope diamond through this very office. It was something that still made headlines.

He chuckled, remembering the hysterical crap the media made up. 'HOPE DIAMOND MISSING – IS THERE NO HOPE LEFT?' 'SECURITY GUARDS SUSPECTED OF THIEVERY" and his personal favourite: "SUSPICIONS OF POSSIBLE GHOST INVOLVEMENT BEING SUSPECTED."

Boom, baby.

But enough internal celebration is enough, it was time to get to work. Sighing, he sat down on one of the horrid antique chairs that lied around the office, which he vowed to get rid of the first time he saw them, and pulled the drapery samples Michelle had narrowed down from three hundred eighty seven samples to forty eight.

He did say he would change the drapes.

It was between the last two choices of drapery (one with butterflies and the other with ducks), that Hillary Clinton came into the office.

"Yes Hillary?" he said, looking up from the drape samples. Hillary Clinton was staring down at the samples with an incredulous look.

"Is there something wrong?" Obama asked. Before he has any notion of warning, Hillary Clinton had burst into laughter. Obama found this rather offensive, for he had spent a long time choosing from forty samples of drapes.

Clinton must have been laughing for a very long time, because by the time she was cohesive again, the sun had moved across the office, he had missed five meals, and he had to call in the medics to perform CPR and restart her heart. The medics advised Obama to never show Clinton anything as stupid as his choice in interior design again, but Obama suspected it had more to do with the snuke up her snizz than his choice in drapes.

After a year, they still have not managed to get it out. Nobody had dared to venture into the snizz to get the snuke out, on account of what happened to whatever that guy's name was who got his head chewed off. Obama thought it must suck to be Clinton. Having a snuke up her snizz can be equivalent to having sand up ones vagina.

But enough about the snuke. Clinton was successfully resuscitated and she dusted herself off as Obama put away his drape samples.

Can never be too careful. There was no way Obama was going to miss his next meal due to the snuke up her snizz.

"Oh my," she said.

"Okay Hillary, whatever you were going to say, spill it."

"Well Barak, the economy is in shambles."

Obama resisted rolling his eyes, "naturally," he said.

"The Secretary of Economics and the Secretary of Offence has concluded the only way to end it is to start a war."

"Why would they conclude that?"

"The Secretary of Law reached a conclusion that they slept with each other, oh my."

"Ah." That made more sense.

"So we need your final approval to start a war."

"Aren't we at war with Taliban in Iraq?" Obama asked.

"Yes Barak, but the majority of Americans want out of Iraq, and the Secretary of Defence already promised to pull out the troops by 2016. America needs a new enemy to focus on."

"Alright. Well this calls for an official meeting sometime next week. But which country should we focus America's hate on? Shall we call the Germans or the Russians? They did try to blow up your snizz," Obama said fairly.

Hillary snickered.

"No, not Germans or Russians, or even the British. We've decided to focus on an enemy that sparked even more hate in Americans than them."

Obama shuffled in his seat, "so who are we planning to attack? The Chinese? Kentucky?"

A silence followed.

"Uhm, Barak? Kentucky is a state."

"Of matter?"

"No, of America.

"… Oh yeah…"

"I'll schedule a meeting in a week; I'll tell you the date sometime tomorrow. Oh yeah, and you have a press conference in ten minutes." Clinton turned to leave the office. Obama ran a hand over his face, and got out his drapes samples. Then he remembered.

"Wait, if we're not going to be at war with Kentuky, then who are we planning to have a war with?"

"The Canadians, of course," Clinton said, turning around.

Then she caught a glance at his drapery samples, and burst out laughing again. Obama sighed, and called for the medics. Again.

If she ever stops laughing, Obama vowed to himself to get some Mexican to get that snuke out of her snizz.

IIIIIIII

Obama walked towards the meeting hall in the Sunset Suite in the Hilton Airport. Ever since the 'Ginger Separatist Movement' in Colorado made the place famous, every major party has been using it, bringing a whole wealth of money pouring in for the Hiltons, even though the Ginger group disbanded in the same room.

All the better for Paris Hilton, apparently. But interestingly, nobody has heard from her in quite some time. There were rumours of her being trapped inside a gay Colorado man's rectum, but Obama could not be sure or care.

The door opens to the Sunset Suite, and Obama was faced with the presidential music. You know, the one that they always play whenever the president walks in.

"Must you play that every time I walk into a room?" Obama asked the trumpet player in front of him.

"Standard procedure, Mr President. I've been playing this piece of shit for fifteen years, you think _I _like playing this for someone I didn't vote for?"

Fair enough.

Obama took his seat. The General stood up, and walked up to the middle of the room, which had some sort of hologram machines buzzing. The General began to speak, but heaven knows what in hell he was talking about, because the overly-large cigar was dangling from his mouth. One of the secretaries put up their hand.

"Yesh?" the General grunted.

"We can't understand what you're saying, Do you mind getting rid of the cigar?"

The General promptly took out his gun and shot him. The maintenance crew came in, and removed the cadaver. The General droned on without missing a beat. Obama strained to decipher what he was saying.

"These are the old enemiehs of Americah. Hitler, Mussolini, Stalin, Saddam Hussien," Holograms of the subsequent persons mentioned was flashed to the entire audience, "unfortunately, they are now all – "

The hologram of Saddam became distorted, and overtaken by static. Needless to say, the General became _very _pissed.

"FUCKING WINDOWS VISTA!" he roared, jabbing at various buttons on the tiny remote, "GET BILL GATES IN HERE!" he yelled at his assistant.

"Um, General? Bill Gates is dead. You killed him in the previous Canadian war, remember?" his assistant said.

The general took out his gun and shot his assistant. He then continued on.

"… And so the old enemies of America are dead, and the Chinese too worried about their own two billion people, we have no other alternative other than to attack Canada."

Another secretary put up her hand, although hesitantly.

"But how will we get Americans to hate Canada?"

"We will ask the one who started 'Mothers Against Canada' and who started the previous Canadian war," the General said, clicking a button. Then he must have realized the holograms had stopped working five seconds ago, so he shot the hologram machine, and pulled out a photograph from his pocket of a fat woman with stupid looking red hair.

"Shiela Broflovski."


End file.
